The Gilbert Scott

Restaurant review: The Gilbert Scott, London NW1

You should have seen the instructions next to the toilet

My mother would hate The Gilbert Scott.  The miniature tie worn by the waitress would have had her tutting and fussing from the get-go.  One look at the house chardonnay would have caused her a mischief.  It was 13 percent proof, you see, and her one rule about wine is that any bottle that exceeds 11 percent is just showing off.  What would have had her reaching for the smelling salts though was the little printed sign in the toilet that gave instructions on how to use the taps.

Happily, I am my own man and am able to turn a blind eye to such lamentable lapses of lunching good form.  So despite the fact that my mother reads everything I write, photocopies it, then pins it to the church noticeboard (for all her friends to see how well I’m doing), I’m going to risk the eye-rolling of my life and say that I really like The Gilbert Scott.

When the restaurant opened in May it marked the end of the £800 million St Pancras regeneration project.  And what a regeneration it is.  The elegance and style that must have dripped from every chandelier when it first opened 138 years ago has been beautifully recaptured and yet this is an eating space that doesn’t feel unwelcoming or exclusive.  The space is big and flooded with natural light, the staff helpful and the Marcus Wareing designed food was so British that I had 1970’s nostalgia flashbacks for hours.

The starter, a porky, livery, sagey Haslet, was as good as any I’ve had in Lincolnshire.  A salty and firm rectangle bound by a quivering ribbon of pork fat, like a porcine birthday parcel.  I would say that I could have done with a bit more toast to go with it but then I’m a pig when I eat pig.

The sea bream was pretty well perfect; white flesh hidden beneath a crisp and slightly blackened skin.  I confess that I did experience a touch of food envy when I saw the chicken and snail pie emerge from the kitchen.  All the food at our table was accompanied with sides that no British table should be without; new potatoes, greens and carrots.  It would appear that some things never change no matter how many Michelin stars the creative has.

Mrs. Beeton’s Snow Eggs turned out not to be a euphemism but rather a splendid egg white and toffee concoction, slightly salty and mouth-tighteningly sweet. 

Most definitely not a euphemism

I have no idea whether the near billion pounds will make the trains from St. Pancras run any smoother but I’d be happy to while away a few hours of delays in The Gilbert Scott any day.  I just won’t take my mother. Come to think of it though, if I wanted to get my hands on the family silver a bit early I could so worse than set her sat nav to NW1 2AR.  She’d be dead before the starter arrived.